


Jane Buchanan Barnes, Jane Buchanan, Bucky

by ChaoticWeevil



Series: They're Lesbians, Harold [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Feels, Catholic Bucky Barnes, Diary/Journal, F/F, Female Bucky Barnes, Female Steve Rogers, Friends to Lovers, Genderbending, Genderswap, Jewish Steve Rogers, Lesbian Character, POV Bucky Barnes, SOMEONE'S being stupid and that someone is bucky AND steve, Slow Dancing, Welcome to my fics where theres no winning and the canon doesnt matter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2019-09-14 17:32:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16917270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaoticWeevil/pseuds/ChaoticWeevil
Summary: "The issue, dear Diary, is not whether or not I have done something wrong: I know I have. I’ve gone on dates with perfectly nice boys who look just fine and many of them treat me perfectly well, and I still went and fell in love with Stephanie Rogers instead of any of them."Bucky gets a diary for her birthday. Bucky meets a certain, extraordinarily reckless girl. Luckily, Bucky has all of one hundred years to decide what to do about it.





	1. 1932-1933

(March 10th, 1932)

Dear Diary,

Today was the date of my 15th birthday. Ma said bought me this piece of junk to record my life in it. I think she’s trying to pry into my perfectly reasonable life choices.

MOTHER, IF YOU ARE READING THIS AND DISRESPECTING MY PRIVACY: I have been doing my English homework, and I have a fine vocabulary, and I do not cuss too much. I do not yell too much, either. I yell a reasonable amount for someone in my difficult situation of being the prettiest girl in my class. I doubt pa would like it if I went around with boys, and the yelling scares them off, so I’d very much like you two to sit down and have a talk about which habit you’d prefer.

I have also decided to not write any more in this book and instead scribble in the pages so I can daydream without anyone bothering me to do the dishes, and if someone tells me I’m being a liar and just scribbling, it will prove they were snooping in my personals, MOTHER.

Best,

Jane Buchanan Barnes

 

 

(April 3rd, 1932)

Dear Diary,

It has been almost a month since my last entry, and no sign of ma calling the cavalry on me. I would really prefer not to write in this, but something has happened. (Ss things do all the damn time! I’m losing my sense. I’m going to be the dumbest doll in school and then I can twirl my hair around my finger and pretend to not know about basic fucking maths.)

So something has happened, and I need to write it at once because I’m dying to tell, but I can’t figure out how to write it out without the gestures needed. Pa says Barnes kids talk with their hands, and that is very, very true. But writing does not count.

For God’s sake, something happened!!!! I have met a girl who is a whole year younger than me and so much meaner. I saw everything she did from the grocers on the corner.

There are older boys who stand at the other side of the street form the corner, and they spend their time throwing rocks at the old cat and whooping at at each other and grabbing at girls skirts and things, etc. etc. Ma calls them a bit too fresh for their own good. I call them the Bastards, and this very girl called them that too.

After she threw a punch. Diary, she must have weighed seventy pounds soaking wet, she looked papery enough that a stiff wind could have blown her right off her feet, and she punched one of the Bastards. She got the snot kicked out of her very promptly and when I went over to help, she acted all haughty about it. But then I bought her a carrot and told her that her nose was bleeding something awful and she shut up real quick and let me walk her home, so I don’t think she was haughty in the bad way. There should be different words for that.

I have just checked my English homework again (Diary, I must confess, I only do the readings. The English teacher’s breath smells like sticky warm milk and his hands are very clammy and I like to avoid having to hand him papers.) The girl I met was acting justifiably righteous. She said her name was Stephanie Rogers, and she lives down the street from me (!!!!) and she has very blonde hair that I thought looked very elegant, but she did not like it one bit when I called her elegant. She was still bruised, though, and the blood had dried on her face like it was curdled, so she probably thought I was being a real jerk about the whole ordeal.

Diary, I will keep you updated about this new actress on the scene. I want to see if she will punch the Bastards again, hopefully further away from a brick wall.

Must leave, ma wants help with the siblings. (I will never have children that need pestering to take baths! If I cannot trust my children to wash their own scrapes and cuts, I will let them be infected and die!!!!)

Best,

Jane Buchanan

 

 

(May 26th, 1932)

Diary,

Can’t write much. I’ve invited the girl over for dinner, her name is Stephanie and she would have better grades then me if our teachers weren’t all bastards who don’t excuse many sick days. Not going to pretend I’ve gotta good vocabulary in this diary, though. Steph’s smart as hell and she doesn’t talk all fancy around the edges, just says what she means, and I think that’s better in every last way.

She punched the Bastards again last week! I can barely stop myself from boasting about her to ma.

Jane Buchanan

 

 

(August 15th, 1933)

Dear Diary,

I lost this old thing for a whole damn year! Either that, or one sister or another stole it. I’ll hold interrogations at dinner.

I’m sixteen now. It’s real nice, I can tell ma I’m out with a some nice boy and instead stay over at Steph’s place for nearly the whole night. Steph’s father is a real sweetheart, works down by the hospital and taught me how to sew up cuts and gashes and things when I was complaining about ma making me join her stuffy embroidery club.

And I don’t go by Jane now, or Jane Buchanan, or Jane Barnes, or any of that fluffy shit. Steph’s taken to calling me Bucky. Told her that I didn’t much like being called all the names that make me sound like the plainest girl on the face of the earth, so she made a fuss about it and made up a whole list of nicknames. She makes a fuss about a lot of things. I might like it, if she wasn’t so damn happy to go and punch her problems away. The girl’s gonna get the snot kicked out of her too many times in one year for someone in her state of health.

(Pa says to call the health issues ’complications’ instead. I say there ain’t nothing complicated about the folks out and about needing to shut the hell up about Steph not being some prime example of the human race or whatever they’re on about lately. Skeeves me out. She’s kind, she’s participating I school real well and all that, and all that while she has to deal with the nastiest medicines in the wide world and doctors that crow about her like she’s not in the room. And she’s a pretty picture, all blonde and blue and she’s got these ruddy cheeks whenever she’s out in the cold or the heat or anything in between. Don’t quite see how all that doesn’t add up to someone wonderful.)

But she nicknamed me and nicknamed me until we both settled on Bucky. I don’t know how much I’ll be able to get away with it at home, but at school, everyone already calls me that instead. Caught on fast, probably because it’s shorter than ‘Jane Buchanan’ and the boys seem to like calling me fond little names It’s not like I mind talking to boys, I just don’t like them using Steph’s nickname on me. But I should probably go out with one of them sooner rather than later, to get it over with. I’m pretty sure if I dance fast enough, they’ll be too out of breath trying to keep up to find sappier nicknames for me. Might see if I can get Steph to tag along.

Time will tell,

Bucky

 

(October 29th, 1933)

Dear Diary,

Steph tags along on every last date, which makes ma and pa very happy that I’m being responsible with my dates and that I’m ‘kind to the poor sickly dear’ (though I’d like to debate that with them for a solid hour, just one, that would be all I’d need). My dates don’t like it much. Billy Mills tried to pull the moves on me by the ladies room of the dance hall and all I had to do to get out of it was claim I needed to rush over to Steph at once to make sure she didn’t feel left out. Women of the world, may I present to you the lifesaver of the century: running off with your friend the second a boy tries to get fresh with you.

I do worry that Steph feels left out, though. Just last week, Thomas H. made some dig about Steph’s hands being so cold that a fella’s parts would snap right off. I told Steph that was a good thing, because clearly Thomas didn’t need his. None of the boys ever ask her out to dance, though. It’s because of her lungs and her heart, I bet, but she’s a real treat to slow dance with, and that’s what’s really romantic. After my worse dates, she usually comes over to stay with me for the night (so she doesn’t have to walk home alone) and the second I change into a nightgown she slides her hands down my arms and gets this slow smile to her lips and dances with me until I stop looking like I’ll murder the next boy I see.

I think I like dancing with her without any music at all then I like dancing with a date out where there is good music. I don’t know exactly why I’m writing out all this. I need a better hiding place for my diary.

Strange tidings,

Bucky

 

 

(December 12th, 1933)

Dear Diary,

Although I found a safe hiding place for this book, I’m a real dolt about updating this thing as much as I should. I guess I feel like I need important events or realizations to write about, but there’s plenty of events going on lately: tomorrow is the first night of Hanukkah for Steph, which means I’ll have excuses to dote on her and give whatever little gifts I can get her to take. And it’s thirteen days away from Christmas for me, which means I’ll have to debate to myself whether or not I must go to confessional as quickly as I can.

The issue, dear Diary, is not whether or not I have done something wrong: I know I have. I’ve gone on dates with perfectly nice boys who look just fine and many of them treat me perfectly well, and I still went and fell in love with Stephanie Rogers instead of any of them. I feel downright awful about it, though. I never meant to like her this much, it just happened, and that’s the very reason I’m debating it all: do I really have to confess a sin I never committed in the first place? I didn’t do anything, I was just a perfectly good friend who happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time when Cupid flew his smarmy self around.

But Diary, never fear, I will not tell her about this. She is a kind soul and she smiles so hard sometimes that she looks like she’s cracking in two and not one bone in my body would ever allow me to hurt her. What she doesn’t know can’t harm her.

This diary entry is nothing but an explanation of the terms of my oath: I swear on my life that I will never tell Stephanie Rogers a word about how much I desperately, desperately love her.

Bucky

P.S. I think I like being called Bucky for more reasons than I thought. Yes, Steph named me it, so it’s just too damn good to pass up. But it’s a boy’s name. Definitively and fully, it’s a boy’s name, and I love the idea of getting to be sweet on girls like that. The boys get to have their best gal hanging off their arm all the time, and Steph only hangs off my arm when she’s trying to get me to back down from a fight, the hypocrite. I love her dearly, and I am not what the name Bucky suggests, and that is a goddamn travesty.

Strike me down now, Diary, before I go and screw this up.


	2. 1935-1936

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Despite all my pathetic teenage whining about how lonesome the world is and all that crap, I’ve found myself some girls like me. Somehow. Miraculously."
> 
> Bucky gets a few more kisses than she bargained for, and life changes rapidly and through a thick blanket of shock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't do basic math so forgive Bucky's age for being all over the place lol

(February 14th, 1935)

              Dear Diary,

              Gotta say, I think I’m refusing to write in this damn thing because I get so miserable every time I reread what’s happened already. And I’ll do myself the favor of writing down exactly why:

  1. Fifteen year old me was a ditz. Makes my skin crawl every time I look over how I used to write, like I had someone invisible to impress. All prim wording and phrasing so stiff I could prop open a door with it. Can’t tell if I’m pissed off about it because it’s unbearably optimistic, because it was a sign of better grades, or because it really is that annoying. Maybe I’m growing up, maybe I’m just tired.
  2. I used to think Steph’s health was as bad as it could be. Or at the very least, I thought her asthma cigarettes and her extracts and everything were somewhat easy to get. She keeps on getting herself in trouble, though; the latest move of the Bastards is to dunk her head in water so she washes up at home like a drowned rat. She just doesn’t warm up once she’s started to shiver, no matter how much soup her da makes, no matter how many blankets I wrap the two of us up in. I’m so damn scared for her, I’m so damn furious at the Bastards, at the doctors and pharmacists, but I know I’m no good for anything but a dance and to be told I’m growing up to be a ‘fine young lady.’ I want to be a fine young lady who gets to shove every last son of a bitch into the Atlantic.
  3. I miss feeling like my crush on Steph would fade over time.



Won’t elaborate on that last one. Now that I’m the ripe old age of seventeen and pa’s acting like I need to settle down within the next three years or die trying, I’ve had more than enough time to think of every damn reason why I’ll never get over Stephanie Rogers.

              So I’ll write about something else. Related, but different. Despite all my pathetic teenage whining about how lonesome the world is and all that crap, I’ve found myself some girls like me. Somehow. Miraculously.

              It started because I took a new job down at the factory, since trying to become a teacher wasn’t holding up too well for me (apparently, telling the principal of a school he could kiss my ass did not bode well for my future). It’s tough work, but it pays alright, and ever since pa lost his job I figure it’s my duty to provide. And there’s a couple women there who were kind enough to take me under their wing.

              The oldest, Edna, didn’t so much as deduce who I was, but considering she heard me talking to Steph before work, she said she had a pretty good guess I wasn’t as sweet on boys as I could be. I told her she might just be right, we edged around the subject with terse little jokes about our dating lives and lack thereof until she asked me what I thought of Steph. I got too defensive for my own good (might’s called her ‘my best gal’ one too many times), but Edna just grinned and shook my hand like she was just meeting me and told me to shut up before I got a supervisor to wander over with all my righteous fury.

She actually, genuinely lives with her gal, Ruby. Edna’s got frizzy white hair that she keeps tied back at all hours of the day, and Ruby dyes her hair brown whenever she can, and they both complain about the other’s hair styles with this type of sun-faded fondness that makes my chest ache. They’re considered the old maids of their apartments and half of the folks they meet think they’re sisters, but I was still knocked straight out by the idea of getting to live with a girl like that.

              And Edna introduced me to the others. There’s Adelaide, who’s a damn good poet who uses words like she knows they break everyone’s hearts and has dark skin that only freckles in the summer and is married to a fine young man who’s sweet on his own fella. Can’t help but say I like that idea. Get myself a lavender marriage, have a way to get pa off my back. There’s Kitty, who’s nearly as young as me and likes wine a little too much and colors her lips so bright that she has to carry around a handkerchief to wipe the marks off of her sweethearts’ cheeks.

I give details about them because I’m just so damn fond, not because I love them, I don’t think. Kitty did give me a kiss when I admitted I never thought I’d get the chance to give my girl so much as a peck. “There,” she said, like she’d bestowed this glorious gift, and maybe she had. When I die, I’ll have kissed at least one perfectly wonderful woman. I’d say that’s good enough for me.

I’m definitely through with confessional. If I’m going to hell, I’m meeting some fine people there.

Happy Valentine’s Day, and to all a brightly colored kiss,

Bucky

 

 

(June 20th, 1935)

Dear Diary,

I’m a few months past eighteen now, and I still can’t quite wrap my head around that. I’m staying with ma and pa for a little longer, just to make sure the little ones are gonna be able to take care of them in their old age, but after that? Edna taught me how to do taxes and balance checkbooks and fix the plumbing and fifty other things pa thought I’d need a man for. I’m gonna be able to move in with Steph, most likely, and that’ll be a relief. Her da keeps falling ill, getting barely better, and then catching another sickness at the hospital the second he tries to go back to work. Steph doesn’t want to speak about it, so I don’t know much more then that, but I do know I could be useful around the house. God, do I like being useful.

In brighter news, Adelaide’s been teaching me how to write all pretty again. Not in the approval-based why I used to, this ain’t for any kind of affection from teachers and parents, this is only for me. Adelaide teaches writing as a crafted tool to sink my emotions into, from personal experience, and it shows. Diary, you should just see the drawers stuffed with scraps of poems she has. Makes me feel a little less pitiful for scribbling away in this diary every six months or so.

I write my emotion-sinks on separate bits of paper to rip up and use as kindling later (there’s something cathartic in watching carefully constructed pain and joy curl up and slough off into ash in the fireplace) but there’s a few I wanted to copy out here. Just to save them for a while. They all belong in the fire or in the trash, but they’re mine.

“When weather permits, I am a cartographer. When the sun blesses her hair until she’s haloed by the golden light and the day is warm in it’s presence, she lays back on the bed with her arms spread out to me. And I approach when asked. Always bearing a sketchbook and charcoal that kisses across her fingertips, so she can create her art as I cherish mine. Her side is my home, where my own fingertips kiss too, pressing light to every rib and freckle and soft scar. Occasionally, she draws me. Occasionally, she smiles to herself like the light and humor in her chest is fluffing itself up over and over again, spilling out. She never tells me what she is smiling about, I never tell her what I’m sighing about, and we find ourselves a place in the world, carefully mapped out.”

I warned you: it’s all sappy trash.

“And she is steps ahead of me. Always first to the battlefield, always first to see the truth, consistently seeking out the life ahead of her. And she agrees: “Rosh Hashanah precedes your New Year for good reason, bearcat of mine. Take off those heels, walk a bit faster, won’t you?” But I am content to stay three steps behind. A defensive position, an excuse to protect, that’s all I need to brave the cold on the slow walk home.”

I’ve got more furious scraps and bits of this crap somewhere around here, but I figure I write enough about the unfortunate sides of life in this diary already. No use in refusing to appreciate who I have in my life. I’ve been learning how to be happy with what I have.

Here’s hoping Steph doesn’t find all this junk!

Bucky

 

(January 10th, 1936)

Dear Diary,

I’m fucking atrocious. Not to act all self-pitying, I mean that phrase to the fullest extent. I took advantage of someone who deserves to be respected more than I ever could.

Which is to say: Steph coaxed me into drinking a little with her after work. Which I often do anyway, so none of this was her fault, but something about dancing with her, sweet mixed drink in hand? It all went to my head. And she was leaning in so damn close that I could’ve counted every last faded freckle on her cheeks, and I was grinning so hard it hurt, and I went and asked her for a kiss.

I should’ve known better, she’s never turned me down when I’m asking for something selfish. She’ll refuse to take my half of breakfast and she’ll refuse to let me be the only working one out of the two of us, but when I ask for something just for me, she just gives and gives and gives.

So the damn fool went and kissed me. I can’t remember whether I started to tear up during the kiss or afterwards, but it was like my mind whited out, like it’d been a blizzard in there since I was fifteen and I stepped right into the heart of the storm. It all just hurt, Diary. She was so soft that the press of her lips was closer to a knife wound then anything, and the noise I made just proved that. I couldn’t touch her, though. Maybe it would’ve been better if I framed her face in my hands and pulled her in and let that sharp point skewer me right through, but all I did was freeze up and tear up and feel like I was gonna throw up. But that was probably the alcohol.

My cheeks had these boiling, ashamed tears rolling down them soon enough, and Stephie apologized and apologized and tried to act like she was to blame. I couldn’t very well explain it all out, could I? So I just held her close again and poured us more drinks. Nudged the two of us into drinking more then we ever should have. I was hoping to forget, or to let Steph forget what I’d done, hopefully both, but when we woke up in the morning with matching headaches, Steph was the one who was blissfully ignorant.

It all feels like a repeat of 1933: what she doesn’t know can’t harm her, Diary.

Please, God, let Steph not find this,

Bucky

 

 

(October 17th, 1936)

Dear Diary,

Steph’s da died two days ago. The two of them got the same fever, but it broke for her and killed him. Haven’t had the funeral yet, but since ma and pa are doing a little better and the siblings are already old enough to care for themselves, I’ve moved right in with Steph. And I’m going to pay for the funeral, or so help me, I’ll steal the flowers and bury the good man myself.

Steph won’t get out of bed, and I’m not going to make her for another five days. She deserves a week, at the very least. I doubt I can count myself very Catholic anymore, but I had to pray, if for nothing else then just to thank God that I was already staying the night to make them both some decent food. The thought of Steph laying in bed, too weak to call for a doctor when her da passed away makes me shiver.

I doubt I can write anything emotionally decent about this whole situation, though. Steph says I’m probably in shock, but that she probably is too, so there’s not much we can do. Since the body’s out of the house, all I’ve done is heat up leftover stew and coax Steph into drinking more water and write. Been burning it all as usual, though. Steph’s been burning her drawings, too. I doubt either of us want much from this time to be recorded, but I felt the need to write at least something in this old thing, since I’ve got the time for it.

I’m going back to work tomorrow morning, so I don’t end up losing my job, but Steph should be alright on her own for a little while. I’ll be putting plenty of food and water and extra pencils on the bedside table for her, I’ll be coming home with new blankets and hopefully some canned peaches, if time allows. She’ll be okay, because I’m going to make damn sure that she’ll be okay.

I still can’t think of what to write. I don’t know how anyone could sum up a wonderful person’s life in a few short paragraphs, but that’s what’ll happen to us all in the end. If I die first, I hope Steph doesn’t give my eulogy. I don’t want her to summarize me, and I sure as hell won’t be able to summarize her.

Bucky


	3. 1936-1943

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Fuck it. Worst comes to worst, I’ll pick pockets. I’m keeping a roof over our heads or I’ll die trying. May the Rogers-Barnes household reign triumphant."
> 
> America enters the war. And Bucky gets a haircut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy SHIT i got through a lot of the timeline, enjoy spanning 7 whole years, folks

(March 20th, 1936)

               Dear Diary,

               Got my Steph to laugh again, thank god. The nights are cold and the mornings were colder, so the point where my hair froze the second I stepped outside without a hat. Came back in with wide eyes and a lock of hair broken off in my palm and all Steph managed to do to help was laugh until she was gasping. God, was I lonely for that laugh of hers.

               Pretty sure my hair looks like shit now. Can’t mind all that much, though.

               Birthday was ten days ago. Steph gave me her da’s watch and a kiss on the cheek, and I don’t know what exactly to think of either.

               Bucky

 

               (July 4th, 1936)

               Dear Diary,

               Today was Steph’s birthday, the first one in the past three years that she hasn’t been ill during it all. My girl’s had a string of bad luck these past few years, but I’m hoping fate’s allowing some good to pass through. Edna says there ain’t no changing fate. But that’s just ‘cause fate let her met her lady love. I say fate’s a damn fool if he thinks he can stop my Steph from going out around the town with me like she’s been raving about.  My girl’s as stubborn as a ram, Diary! Dunno what force in the world’s ever gonna dare stop her, and I hope I never learn.

               Won’t be writing much these next months. Hell, I already haven’t been writing. I took another job, since the summer air’s so muggy that I can’t help but worry about it. Been busy as hell. And Kitty got laid off from the factory just last week—she’ll be just fine, she’s got a gig at the bar down the road—but I’m spooked from it. Every kind of work I can do here in the city is expendable. I could be fired at any time, and it’d wouldn’t affect the company itself in the slightest.

               Fuck it. Worst comes to worst, I’ll pick pockets. I’m keeping a roof over our heads or I’ll die trying. May the Rogers-Barnes household reign triumphant.

               Bucky

 

               (June 6th, 1938)

               Dear Diary,

Been a good while, hasn’t it? All you need to know:   
\-- Steph got herself a job at the factory too. Not good for her lungs, but money’s money and she likes having work to do. Been trying to get her to consider something where she can’t lose a damn hand with one misstep.  
\-- I’m dating boys again. One boy in particular: Mark. It’s been a few months, he’s nice enough, and he’s alright to Steph and he’s alright to me, and I guess that’s all I can ask for.  
\-- Things are okay, miraculously. I feel like I’m through the storm, in personal life, at least. The news is getting strange.

Here’s to stable jobs and decent men,

Bucky

 

(November 10th, 1939)

Diary,

Been well over a year, and let me be the first to say: I was a damn fool to claim things were just ‘strange.’ I can’t find many good newspapers detailing it all, at least when it comes to cheap ones, but things are brewing something awful in Europe, and no one seems to be able to figure out what to do. Edna and Ruby are getting jumpy, though. They lived through the Great War, after all, I figure they’ve got every right to be nervous. Kitty says it’ll probably blow over soon, though, if anyone calls Germany’s bluff.

She also says that I should probably stop spewing that kind of nervous talk over drinks.

Steph’s alright. Hasn’t been sick for a good while, but unfortunately, that means she’s going around thinking she’s invincible again. Keeps coming home with a shiner and a wild tale of how she _swears_ she had some asshole on the ropes.

The reason I mention this, Diary (because I’m pretty sure everyone and their cousin knows about Steph’s tendency to launch herself into every fight she sees), is because I think she’s gearing up to sock the guy I’ve been seeing. He got laid off a month or so ago and I guess he’s bitter about his gal having a job when he doesn’t, because he’s been a real jerk for the past while. But he’s the one man I feel like I could stand dating, he doesn’t grab at me when we kiss, he’s alright with me wanting to live with Steph still, he makes it tolerable, so I want to stick it out and tolerate him.

All he does is insult a little. I’ve heard worse, but Steph keeps getting all high and mighty about it. It’s sweet of her and all, but I’ve got this picture in my head of the life I want, Diary. I’ll get married to some fella, Steph will live with us, and I’ll work my ass off to make sure we can pay rent comfortably and get some nice food every now and then. There’ll be kids, I suppose? I guess he’ll be.

Sorry Diary, having trouble phrasing this. I guess I’ll just have to.

I don’t know.

It’s a necessary part of life to have to

I should just write it, Jesus. He’s tolerable, but I’m too soft about my fantasies of life. I want to raise kids with my girl at one point or another, once whoever I marry has a stable job, and kids require me to get over myself and have a few romps in the sheets with a guy. Christ.

I’m getting carried away. I was trying to write about Steph and her tendency to stand up at the dinner table all fast, like she could intimidate my date out of the house with her glare and 5’3’’ build.

Here’s to stable jobs and semi-tolerable men, at least,

Bucky

 

(January 12th, 1940)

Dear Diary,

Screw it all. It doesn’t matter what I can take when it comes to relationships, it doesn’t matter how much I want to have a kid for me and my girl, because the damn fool I was dating went and yelled at Steph. I can’t be with a guy who thinks it’s fine to insult my girl just because she gets ill from time to time, because she’s having a bit of trouble holding a job. He’s got no right to call her names.

All Steph did was tell him to knock it off when he tried to make some dig at my ability (or lack thereof) at keeping house. Steph pokes fun at my not-so-stellar housewife skills all the time, so I didn’t see what was wrong, exactly, but I guess the difference is because Steph doesn’t mean to harm.

She likes teasing me about accidentally turning my white shirt pink in the wash, Mark likes acting as if he’s doing me a huge favor by bothering to stick around. And technically, he is. Or was.

The point stands: Steph just told him to knock it off, and he threw back with something atrocious and unwritable about how a sick girl’s a useless thing to guys like him. So I told him to get the hell out before I tossed him out with my own two hands.

Steph helped me move all his stuff out onto the street, which I appreciated, though she kept berating me about _this_ being the breaking point. She doesn’t quite get it, though. I’ve thought of myself with worse words than any man can try to hurt me with, and that keeps me safe. Steph’s braver than I am, she flat out _refuses_ to call herself names, but I’m so damn scared that means she’ll end up believing it when other people say awful things. So, I can’t let anyone say awful things to her.

And I guess I’m not supposed to just tolerate relationships. I guess they’re supposed to feel the way being with Steph feels, and I guess I already knew that. I just wanted something to hope for. Cannot fucking believe I made it through half a dozen unsuccessful attempts to get myself a kid with that bastard. I acted very nice through it all and didn’t say shit when he was panting over me like a goddamn mutt, but no such luck.

It’s not all bad, though. I’m writing this with Steph dozing on my lap, the apartment’s warm, and the night’s quiet now that we’re just waiting for Mark to come by and pick up his stuff.

Steph smiles in her sleep, sometimes. It’s real sweet.

Bucky

 

(November 20th, 1940)

Dear Diary,

Tensions high in Europe. There’s rumors that America’s gonna enter the war soon.

Related note: been working out more, been taking boxing lessons from Edna, turns out she learned a few things back in her day. Been talking with her about how to go about passing as a man one of these days. Turns out when she was my age, she got herself a few gigs at factories by binding her breasts tight to her chest and going by her dead brother’s name and learning how to talk low. She says it was frightening as hell, and I’ve got to say, I can’t help but agree. Just going out without dolling myself up like I’m made of fuckin’ porcelain feels dangerous. Good. Real good. But dangerous.

But I’m thinking if war does come to our city, I could enlist pretty quick. I know how to get my way. The money would be good. And maybe distance would get me to forget about Steph a little. It’d be really good for us, to take a bit of a break somehow.

As it stands now, I feel like I’m going insane. Steph’s started crawling into bed with me whenever she can and smoothing her hand down my side over and over like she’s soothing a spooked animal. If it was anyone else, I’d be downright pissed that they think I need a little comfort. But her hands are so careful with me that it just makes me misty-eyed and I can’t quite puzzle out why. Jesus, I wanna learn how to sew so I can gift her whatever new dress catches her eye.

She’s been looking at me at sad around the edges, so I guess I’m looking particularly downtrodden today. Bye, Diary. Gotta hold my girl for a while.

Bucky

 

(December 17th, 1941)

Dear Diary,

It’s happened. U.S. entered the war, I’m enlisting, it’s all happening. Even going as a man. I’m getting enough money to keep Steph nice and cozy at home or I’ll die trying.

Steph knows that I’m gonna be going, if it all works out. I don’t think she’s at all happy about it, but she knows. She set me down in the bathtub and cut my hair short for me, cooing over her ‘handsome soldier.’ I told her to stop flattering me, and she told me to stop talking before she accidentally nicked me with the scissors.

Diary, she talks with her voice all dripping with fondness whenever she says these sharp little things. It makes me feel like I’m the prettiest girl at the dance and I somehow don’t mind it.

When I leave the house as myself, as a woman, I just wear the best hat we’ve got so it looks like my hair’s just pinned up. I hate feeling like a strong gust of wind could ruin me.

I practiced passing for a fella this whole past year, got a few better paying jobs while I was at it. It’s tough work, but at least I can pay for Steph’s doctors more easily. And Edna was right: it’s so goddamn frightening that I keep waking up in a panic when I realize my chest isn’t all wrapped up. I’ve been saying I’m just a kid to get away with how fake my voice sounds (I doubt talking that low is ever gonna feel natural to me) and that gets me a bit of leeway. It helps that the vast majority of the guys I work with haven’t ever seen a woman look like me.

I can’t believe I’ll be leaving Steph. I know I should be thinking about serving my country or something. I know I should be focusing on not getting myself caught. But for the life of me, I can’t get my head around having to go. It feels like Steph should be right there with me, just like always. But even if she could get herself a position as a nurse or the like, she just wouldn’t be able to keep up without getting herself hurt. Which isn’t a bad thing. I can’t see why anyone in the great wide world would _want_ to be in war, I’d much rather she get to keep to a bit more safety. I guess that’s a bit condescending.

Sorry, Steph,

Bucky

 

(June 15th, 1943)

Diary,

In the army, now. Boot camp. It’s all official and everything. Steph gave me a new, smaller diary to tuck along with me, so I can keep writing and have paper to send letters and all else. She says I can paste them all in the original book when I get back. Not if, _when._

That’s not the point. I know I’m stalling, I’m aware, but it hurts to write about Steph even now. But putting words to it all helps. So I’ll write.

The night before I left, I went to the Stark Expo with Steph. Dressed as a man. With her on my arm. God, it was the most glorious feeling, getting to wrap an arm around her shoulder like I do at home, being free of any men walking up feeling like they’re owed conversation, or a dance, or anything more.

We saw a synthetic man, some kind of machine, and I pointed up to it and said, “That’s what I feel like right about now.” She laughed, and asked me something like, “Aw, baby, you’re handsomer than that.” And something delicious shot up my spine the second ‘baby’ slipped from her lips, trippled when she said ‘handsome’, shook me up so bad that I figure my voice sounded off when I said, “Not that. I meant that I’m made of steel right about now,” because she laughed at that, too.

I danced with her, a little. Neither of us called it a date, but it was, I figure. It was.

But then I lost her in the crowd. I fretted for a good while, thinking she’d be trampled or get herself into a fight or god knows what, but I found her the second I neared where folks were enlisting. Looking odd. Can’t describe it fully, but there was this whole mix of thoughtfulness and rejection and hope and all else. Made me nervous for her.

Turns out she’d tried yet again to get in a nurse, and yet again, she was rejected outright. I doubt they want a nurse who needs a team of doctors, so I wasn’t too surprised about that, if more than a little irked on her behalf. But that didn’t explain her expression. It outright haunted me. And I guess I had to realize, then, that I’d be missing out on more than just the meaning to one expression. I’d be missing out on years. Great, behemoth slabs of my girl’s life, all lost to me.

I cried a lot, when we got in bed later than night. I wanted to do something grand for her, maybe get the guts to kiss her again, or touch her, or something wonderful and foolish like that. I didn’t. She just held me, and I held her, and there was some comfort in not knowing who’s tears were against my cheek.

I feel like I’m trying to describe separate scenes to myself. I feel like I’m mourning, almost, but that’s not quite right.

I’ll be happy to get back to training tomorrow. Even if I’ve decided the army is a cesspool for the worst kinds of people to get into all kinds of power, they sure do have good ways to build muscle. Feels good, to be in my own body like that. Helps me think of other things, for a while.

For a tiny, little while.

Every last time I’ve had a new diary, I’ve written something about needing to keep it hidden. So: obligatory yet necessary ‘gotta keep this under wraps.’ Literally.

See ya, Diary. Hoping to send my Steph some letters before the week is through, I’ll copy them out here, too.

Bucky


	4. 1943

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I can hardly believe we’ll have a whole damn ocean between you and I. Sometimes, I feel as if we’re tethered together with some wickedly long piece of rope, and if I go wandering too far away, I’ll end up dragging you across the sea with me."
> 
> Steph writes a letter, and Bucky writes a will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UH OH the start of me Wildly Fucking Up canon begins! Enjoy the month-day-mistakes, y'all :,)

(June 20th, 1943)

  
Dear Steph,

  
Gonna be frank: I don’t know who reads these letters or not. Some of the other guys in my bunk are writing the bawdiest shit to ever exist (free readings of the fine literature included in the price of board, it seems), and I’m not about to follow their example; I was embarrassed enough when Edna caught me cussing up a storm that time she and her friend came over for dinner. A few weeks before I was shipped off, I think it was? Wasn’t my fault that I stubbed my toe, but I figure enough is enough when it comes to that.

  
Do you remember that night? It meant the world to me, but I’m not sure how much it meant to you. Knowing that I likely wouldn’t see any of you anytime soon, maybe not ever again, it got me to slow down a little. And Jesus, Steph, that soup you served up was so damn good. I swear, I think about it every last day here. Food’s awful. Just about the same as school dinners, though, so I figure school was just plain preparing me for the army. But instead of my brain hurting, my whole body does, down to the marrow. It’s a good, clean feeling. I volunteered to shower last, just so I can get the coldest water possible. It’s hot as Hell itself over here, so it’s refreshing, anyway. Good practice, right?

  
I hope you’re doing alright. I hope you’re healthy as can be, but I know that’s a lot to ask for in the summer. I hope Edna and Ruby and Adelaide and Kitty are all doing well, too. Let me know if there’s been anything new going on around town, won’t you? I’m homesick for the whole lot of you, and I’m hoping hearing if there’s a sale or a demolition or a new store will fill that pit in me up, even a little. I feel so damn homesick for you.

  
I doubt I’ll get another reply to you with birthday gifts, so I’m sending them now. Praying that the pressed flowers don’t crumble in the mail. One of the other guys in my bunk called me a pansy about it (and failed to see the joke they nearly made, which was sadder), but they shut up quick enough when I explained who they were for and how neglected his girl probably was in comparison. May or may not have mentioned how many soon-to-be army wives I heard already planning to run off with their lovers, may or may not have gotten into a bit of a scrape. So the second present is that I won’t try my luck like that again, I swear on my mother’s life. You don’t have to promise not to get into fights in return, though. Have a very happy birthday, Steph.

  
Dreadfully dull note from my corner of the USA: being shipped out to England soon enough. I can hardly believe we’ll have a whole damn ocean between you and I. Sometimes, I feel as if we’re tethered together with some wickedly long piece of rope, and if I go wandering too far away, I’ll end up dragging you across the sea with me.

  
Please, despite the strange rope-centered fears: don’t worry too much about me. Leave some fretting for me, doll.

  
Yours ‘till the end of the line,  
Bucky

 

(postmarked July 18th, 1943; letter torn neatly and pasted in on July 30th, 1943)

  
Dearest Bucky,

  
Some of the flowers crumbled just a touch, I’m sorry to say, but the clover kept! I very much doubt you would ever keep from getting yourself in trouble, even for me, but the thought is appreciated. I know how tough you think you are, but you’re sweet, Bucky, you’re the sweetest guy I’ve ever had the gift of meeting. I know how strong you really, truly are, but I don’t want any of the tenderness you have harmed at all.

  
I remember that night vividly, and I’m sorry that you ever had a single doubt that it didn’t mean as much to me as it did to you. They’re all lovely women. They took extra care to check in on me for the brief amount of time I was still home.

  
Edna and Ruby are moving further North; there’s more jobs up there, they hear, and the factory you and Edna worked at is just about shutting down by now. Barely a soul wants luxury goods in these times. The two of them seem wonderfully excited about the prospect of starting over. I doubt I’m quoting her perfectly, but Ruby said something like, “Spinsters our age, there’s no point in doing much more than enjoying the last of our days.” See, when I write it out, it sounds awful sad. But the joy in her voice was so very, very vast. I’m sorry that you weren’t there to see them off, but they wished you the best of luck and said you were an absolute delight to know. I can’t describe how much they missed you, Bucky. I think you were like a son to them. They had me promise to treat you well and everything, and I’m not at all ashamed to say that made me cry just as hard as when you left. They’ll be happy, happy women, I’m sure of it.

  
I’m not quite sure how to put this, but Kitty is pregnant. Please, please don’t worry too terribly, I promise this story has a happy ending. She decided to keep it the moment she realized she was pregnant. I hosted her over at our house; I couldn’t bear to see her have to stay home alone. She’s a wonderful girl, but awfully proud, and I doubt she’d accept help from the man who slept her even if he offered it in good faith. I think it’s entirely fair of her. The bastard showed up near the shop she works at one day, so I went and hung around near her desk until she could hand in her notice. There was a bit of stress about where she could find a job that didn’t cross her paths with him, but that was soon over.

  
And I’ll tell you why: it’s because Ms. Adelaide is the most kindly, full-hearted woman on earth. She and Kitty had already been awfully fond of one another, so the moment Adelaide found out, she mentioned how she and her husband had been looking for a nanny to live with them. Now, when you were here, they had no children. That has not changed, but I have a sneaking suspicion that in seven months or so, the whole household will have one wonderful child to care for. And what a lucky child it will be!

  
As for me, I’m healthy. I’m much more than healthy, I’m doing so very well and I’m strong as on ox now and I can promise with my whole heart that I’m not being sarcastic right now. Granted, I miss you so terribly and I’m so worried that my ribs ache every last day. But that pain is not at all from my lungs. I fully doubt I’ll have a single problem with my lungs ever again, in fact.

  
I think it’s a safe bet to assume you noticed that I was a little lost in thought after I tried to join the army (again), and though I don’t have the clearance to tell you much of anything just yet, know that I’ll be just fine now. And I may very well be coming your way soon. One thing I definitely can tell you, and something I certainly didn’t know: chorus girls are paid more dismally by the year.

  
Gracious, there is too much to tell. I do hope to be with you again before wintertime, Bucky, and I can’t wait any longer than that to share with you all the news I couldn’t write out here. Do take care, and I’ll be there before you know it.

I am very horribly sorry, but I can’t bring myself to return your sentiments in quite the same wording. It’s awfully tragic, to think that there is an end of the line at all, after the tears we’ve poured into this life. It hardly seems fair. I propose a revision:  
Yours, always and enduring,  
Steph

 

(July 30th, 1943)

  
Diary,

  
What in the goddamn hell. I’ve pasted Steph’s letter in here for ease of access, because for the life of me, I can’t puzzle out all that she’s trying to tell me, and it’s driving me absolutely insane.

  
It is strange to read her referring to me as a man, as I've always, thankfully been a girl in her eyes, but that's besides the point. I don’t know how she ever thinks she’s going to get here, much less in two seasons. I don’t know how she could be entirely serious about being as strong as an ox. Don’t get me wrong, Diary, my girl’s the most steadfast person I know and has a mean right hook to rival anyone, but her lungs must be hurting in the summer city air. It’s gotten muggier and muggier over the past years, there’s no possibility that she wouldn’t be wheezing in it. I don’t know what she means at all about ‘always and enduring’ and tenderness and all other wonderful, horrible things. They hurt me. I hurt. More from missing her than anything, more because it seems an awful lot like she’s returning my bold affections and that frightens me, and I suppose it might be a little bit of both.

  
I do hope she visits me, somehow. I know it’s selfish, to wish for your girl to meet you on the battlefront, and I don’t think I could stand her having to so much as meet half of the men I was with back in boot camp, but I still hope. And the guy’s in my unit are decent enough, they’re good souls. And Steph is an unstoppable force, more or less. I feel that crossing the ocean may be too much to ask of even her.

  
Lord, I want nothing more than to be in some big, warm room with all the people I love. Every time I miss Steph, I miss everyone else I care for, too. See, I figured Edna and Ruby would be moving soon, as much as it hurts that I wasn’t there to say good-bye in person. I wish I could’ve thanked Edna in particular. For teaching me how to walk and how to style my hair nice and how to wear a suit without looking like a goddamn frightened statue. I wish I could’ve thanked Ruby for putting up with my atrocious table manners when I kept talking all through meals. I didn’t know a thing about Kitty getting knocked up, but I suppose that’s a side effect of not being home. I wish I’d been there to comfort her, but it’s a comfort to me instead that Steph was helping out. I’m glad that Adelaide and Kitty’ll get their fairytale ending. I remember when the only thing I wished for was a child to have and my Steph to hold. I still wish for that, and Steph’s letter makes me want it all the more, but I guess it’s silly of me.

  
I keep finding myself reading over Steph’s letter, over and over again. It’s wonderful to hear her words, or read them, at the very least. She writes letters like how she speaks at fancy events, so much so that I can practically see her in her blue dress, hair fussed with until it’s gone wild around the edges. I’ve missed her voice so terribly.

  
And I have to admit, ‘always and enduring’ is better.  
Bucky

 

(October 11th, 1943)

  
Diary, and hopefully, Steph,

  
Never been in a fight this bad. The goddamn Nazis are all cozy with some HYDRA force, people tell me it might stand for something, but I dunno what besides ‘fuckin’ awful news.’ They’ve got tanks. Picking us off.

  
The men around me are praying or just plain closing their eyes but I tucked my diary in my pocket today for this very reason; we figured it’d be a hard win. Or an easy loss.

  
Steph, I dunno if you’re ever going to find this diary, especially not if I get buried under sod and gunfire. But I’m hoping beyond hope here. I don’t care about how last wills and testaments work, I want to give you and Adelaide and Kitty the whole lot of what I own. Make sure Edna and Ruby get the clothes they lent me in particular, if you can find where they drove off to.

  
Most of all, Steph, I want you to have the apartment and my good clothes and the ring my momma gave me. I want you to have the world, but I don’t have much at all, so that will have to do. My darling spitfire, I love you too deeply for words, but if you’ve found this, you’ve found the entirety of my tender secrets. I long to hold you, just for a moment longer, my dear. I long to cook dinner with you, and set the table, and talk for hours into the night just to hear what glorious, bright thoughts you’ve got in that head of yours.

  
I'd wished I had longed to live until winter, to see if I really could be with you just one last time. And I had hoped I’d be brave then. Brave enough to kiss you and mean it, and not balk away when you kissed back. Brave enough to give you the world, fully and truly.

 

Stephanie Rogers, I love you dearly.

  
I’m yours, always and

**Author's Note:**

> My goal is to write out Most of the mcu storyline through this, in nice little bite sized pieces, with obvious gaps and changes of format where needed. But overall: yes, this will get more and more canon divergent as things go on (Infinity War? End Game?? I don't know her). No, I sadly won't be updating very regularly due to my shedule, but kudos and comments spur me on to write more than anything else!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [It was a quick realization for it all to take nearly a century.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17116424) by [WeShallSee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeShallSee/pseuds/WeShallSee)




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